Words scribbled across
crumbled paper
read the same way
More than mere thoughts
Thunk
More than expressions
Stated
More than feelings
Shared
More than Adventures
Experienced
More than memories
Not yet created
We are all raw poetry
crumbled up on pieces of paper
with scribbled
sometimes unlegible
sentiments
scratched on stained
scrapped posted notes
not so much to be
re-membered
as much as to live on
Be Found
Read
Re-experienced
when needed most
RAW POETRY
we are more
(so much more)
than scribbled words
on pieces of discarded scrapes of paper. . .
a C t
L i K e
i t
SOME WORDS NOT OUR OWN
THERE ARE SOME WORDS
NOT MY OWN
THAT SAY SO MUCH MORE
THAN I COULD EVER WRITE
OR SAY
B U T
need to read or hear
than any that could bounce around in my head
or spill out of my pen
L I K E:
my brain and
heart divorceda decade agoover who was
to blame about
how big of a mess
I have becomeeventually,
they couldn’t be
in the same room
with each othernow my head and heart
share custody of meI stay with my brain
during the weekand my heart
gets me on weekendsthey never speak to one another
– instead, they give me
– the same note to pass
– to each other every week
and their notes they
send to one another always
says the same thing:“This is all your fault”
on Sundays
my heart complains
about how my
head has let me down
in the pastand on Wednesday
my head lists all
of the times my
heart has screwed
things up for me
in the futurethey blame each
other for the
state of my lifethere’s been a lot
of yelling – and cryingso,
lately, I’ve been
spending a lot of
time with my gut
who serves as my
unofficial therapistmost nights, I sneak out of the
window in my ribcageand slide down my spine
and collapse on my
gut’s plush leather chair
that’s always open for me~ and I just sit sit sit sit
until the sun comes uplast evening,
my gut asked me
if I was having a hard
time being caught
between my heart
and my headI nodded
I said I didn’t know
if I could live with
either of them anymore“my heart is always sad about
something that happened yesterday
while my head is always worried
about something that may happen tomorrow,”
I lamentedmy gut squeezed my hand
“I just can’t live with
my mistakes of the past
or my anxiety about the future,”
I sighedmy gut smiled and said:
“in that case,
you should
go stay with your
lungs for a while,”I was confused
– the look on my face gave it away
“if you are exhausted about
your heart’s obsession with
the fixed past and your mind’s focus
on the uncertain futureyour lungs are the perfect place for you
there is no yesterday in your lungs
there is no tomorrow there eitherthere is only now
there is only inhale
there is only exhale
there is only this momentthere is only breath
and in that breath
you can rest while your
heart and head work
their relationship out.”this morning,
while my brain
was busy reading
tea leavesand while my
heart was staring
at old photographsI packed a little
bag and walked
to the door of
my lungsbefore I could even knock
she opened the door
with a smile and as
a gust of air embraced me
she said“what took you so long?”
~ John Roedel (johnroedel.com)
were spoken first by
Someone Else
and echoing intimately within us
For An Ever. . .
ALL DAY SUCKERS
that deliver more flavor
that can be promised
. . .only enjoyed
GIVE ME, GIVE ME, GIVE ME
Thoreau once said,
“IF YOU HAVE BUILT CASTLES IN THE AIR;
YOUR WORK NEED NOT BE LOST;
THAT IS WHERE THEY SHOULD BE.
NOW PUT THE FOUNDATION UNDER THEM.”
GIVE ME, GIVE ME, GIVE ME,
Eyes that see
what they don’t always notice
Ears that hear
what is not always said
A Heart that beats
for someone, something, other than me
Hands that extend
not so much to receive as to give and comfort
Paths that lead
to places I would never choose but need to be
Truths that I’ve refused to consider
Meaning to the seemingly meaninglessness
Food that nourishes
more than just my body
Water that quenches
all thirsts
Breaths that require
no air
Peace that banishes
all war, conflict, unrest
internal, external, eternal
Unconditional love
without hints of the conditionals
Diseases that
lead to healings
Pockets full of change
that are changeless
Time that never has to be traveled
behind or ahead and appreciated for its
eternal Now
Answers to all of the
why’s, what-for’s, how-come’s
Beginnings with no ends
Moments past Forever’s
Prayers that never need
praying only realizing
__________________because there are
endless__________________that’ll be innumerable
GIVE ME, GIVE ME, GIVE ME
NEVER ALONE
I shall
Gather up
All the lost souls
That wander this earth
All the ones that are alone
All the ones that are broken
All the ones that never really fitted in
I shall gather them all up
And together we shall find our homePoem written by Athey Thompson
Taken from A Little Book Of Poetry
Tales of the old forest faeries
Photograph from “Through the back door” by J Pickford and A Green
WHAT WE HOLD
grows beyond whatever
can be promised. . .I can’t aways promise
A clean extended handA cool drink for a hot dayA warm full course mealA heavy coat for winter’s coldA pair of shoes for a dimmed lit roadPromisesAre often waterless wellsEmpty pocketsHolding ChangeThat never jangled
A check written
with invisible ink
and still never given
yearn to be what is needed
and not what is thought to only be wanted
so that we can become
to each’s other
what can’t be a promised land
when sown
we forever grow together
whatever could be promised
THIS POEM
Leaky Ink from a pen
Dull led from a pencil
Dirty computer keys tapped on
Until words appear
Without much definition
And even less meaning
Still tell a story
That can’t be read
That can’t be told
That can’t be heard
That can’t be seen
That can only be experienced
And is
Mostly without notice
Leaving us to question
WHAT JUST HAPPENED
As we bemoan the agony of
Change
but embracing lovingly the
Q U E S T I O N I N G
Everything is plundered, betrayed, sold,
Death’s great black wing scrapes the air,
Misery gnaws to the bone.
Why then do we not despair?
By day, from the surrounding woods,
cherries blow summer into town;
at night the deep transparent skies
glitter with new galaxies.
And the miraculous comes so close
to the ruined, dirty houses —
something not known to anyone at all,
but wild in our breast for centuries.
~ Anna Akhmatova ~
H U H
along with me. . .
A Prayer’s PRAYER
I’ve always been a Mary Oliver fan
but I’ll also admit that I’ve read much more of her
now that she’s dead
than when she was alive
I suppose which not only makes her
not only more Alive
than ALIVE
but still doing
what she did the best
(and still is)
S H A R E
As I page
through this Anthology
I often have the same feeling
that I have when I heard her voice
reading this poem
with a resounding
E C H O I N G
of when you need a prayer
notice that nothing all around you
is miraculously short of that
with the worldly unspoken invitation:
WHEN YOU DON’T HAVE A PRAYER
B E
O N E
(The only true prayer you’ll ever need
is the one you are)
STAINED g L a S s
May I live this day
Compassionate of heart,
Clear in word,
Gracious in awareness,
Courageous in thought,
Generous in love.
JOHN O’DONOHUE
Excerpt from ‘Matins’ in his books, Benedictus (Europe) /
To Bless the Space Between Us (US)
Stained for good
Jagged uneven pieces
Discarded for garbage
Hardly pieces of art
Until the Light
Explodes me instantaneously
To a panoramic brilliance of beams
That eyes can only merely see
But souls understand
experience
Creating me
STAINED FOR GOOD
Assuring
that even a space
that once held a tinged altarpiece
still lets in Light
SEEING with your Ears
I love words. . .
I love reading them
I love writing them
I love listening to them
I love transcending them. . .
These words
This poem from
Phyllis Cole-Dai
seems to illu8strate each of these things. . .
A good Monday morning blog. . . ?
Wait. . What. . . ?
Were you expecting the usual Monday Morning Video Blog post. . . ?
I have never offered you a chance
JUST TO LISTEN
to words
. . .to maybe close your eyes
and just listen to
some nicely arranged words
that paint only colors you can see
on the blank canvas of your mind
. . . close your eyes
make your own video
as you hear Phyllis Cole-Dai’s poem
that came to her in a dream right before the pandemic hit. . .
As you hear words
v i s i o n
Somebody
that this might include
that has is dying
has died
but never been lost from you. . .
May her very words
Become Flesh
that massages the forehead
of your grieving
troubled mind
as it intertwines its fingers in between yours
as they never let go
but now feels so very empty just the same. . .
May it put a beat in your heart
that’s not only everlasting
but ever present
ever easing
(assuring)
Shhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh. . .
q u i e t
see with your ears
(Phyllis’s original thought was to release the book on Memorial Day last year, but the pandemic accelerated her plans. She made the book available solely through her website, so that she could sign every copy that was ordered, and give people the opportunity to request a personalized inscription if they so wished.
When she lost her own father recently to COVID-19, Phyllis would receive, among the many messages and gestures of condolence, solidarity and care, a copy of her own poem — coming to her once again, she notes, “from the outside– as it did in my dream.”
In her words, “You may choose to share it during a memorial service or other farewell gathering. Save it as a keepsake, attaching photographs, jotting down memories and reflections. Offer it as a gift of compassion. However you choose to use it, may it bring you consolation.”)
A POEM OF US
Quite a lot to stand up at
Attention
Salute
and notice these past few days
all in a word
U N I T Y
but like most
w o r d s
they mean little
until they take on a meaning
far past
and deeper
than an ear can hear
a mouth can shout
or a mind, understand. . .
Maybe that’s an odd definition of a Poem
but when it’s
E X P E R I E N C E D
hearing or reading it
doesn’t matter
until it does
. . .until it does BOTH
Amanda Gorman’s Inaugural Poem
“THE HILL WE CLIMB”
Amanda Gorman became only the sixth inaugural poet in history, and the youngest ever, on Wednesday when she read her poem “The Hill We Climb” after the swearing-in of President Joe Biden and Vice President Kamala Harris.
Gorman’s poem – written at least partially in the aftermath of the insurrection at the U.S. Capitol Building on Jan. 6 – weaves the soaring language typical of inaugural poems past with sharp, syncopated lines about events from just days ago.
The Inaugural Poem has become a tradition for Democratic presidents since John F. Kennedy’s inauguration in 1961, when Robert Frost read his poem “The Gift Outright.”
At his first inaugural address in 1993, President Bill Clinton invited Maya Angelou to read her poem “On the Pulse of Morning.” Poet Miller Williams read at Clinton’s second inauguration, and Barack Obama had readings by poets Elizabeth Alexander and Richard Blanco at both of his ceremonies.
Gorman, a 22-year-old Harvard graduate, became the country’s first National Youth Poet Laureate in 2017. She is the author of the poetry book “The One for Whom Food is Not Enough.”
“Mr. President, Dr. Biden, Madam Vice President, Mr. Emhoff, Americans and the world: When the day comes we ask ourselves, ‘where can we find light in this never-ending shade, the loss we carry, a sea we must wade?’
We’ve braved the belly of the beast, we’ve learned that quiet isn’t always peace. And the norms and notions of what just is isn’t always justice. And yet the dawn is ours before we knew it, somehow we do it. Somehow we’ve weathered and witnessed a nation that isn’t broken, but simply unfinished.
We, the successors of a country and a time where a skinny Black girl descended from slaves and raised by a single mother can dream of becoming president only to find herself reciting for one.
And yes, we are far from polished, far from pristine, but that doesn’t mean we are striving to form a union that is perfect. We are striving to forge our union with purpose. To compose a country committed to all cultures, colors, characters and conditions of man.
And so we lift our gazes not to what stands between us, but what stands before us. We close the divide, because we know to put our future first, we must first put our differences aside. We lay down our arms so we can reach out our arms to one another. We seek harm to none and harmony for all.
“Let the globe, if nothing else, say this is true: that even as we grieved, we grew; that even as we hurt, we hoped; that even as we tired, we tried; that we’ll forever be tied together victorious, not because we will never again know defeat but because we will never again sow division.
Scripture tells us to envision that ‘everyone shall sit under their own vine and fig tree and no one shall make them afraid.’ If we’re to live up to our own time, then victory won’t lie in the blade but in all the bridges we’ve made.
That is the promise to glade, the hill we climb if only we dare it, because being American is more than a pride we inherit – it’s the past we step into and how we repair it.
We’ve seen a force that would shatter our nation rather than share it, would destroy our country if it meant delaying democracy. And this effort very nearly succeeded. But while democracy can be periodically delayed, it can never be permanently defeated.
In this truth, in this faith we trust for while we have our eyes on the future, history has its eyes on us. This is the era of just redemption we feared at its inception.
We did not feel prepared to be the heirs of such a terrifying hour, but within it we found the power to author a new chapter, to offer hope and laughter to ourselves. So while once we asked ‘how could we possibly prevail over catastrophe,’ now we assert: ‘how could catastrophe possibly prevail over us?’
We will not march back to what was, but move to what shall be: a country that is bruised but whole, benevolent but bold, fierce and free. We will not be turned around or interrupted by intimidation because we know our enaction and inertia will be the inheritance of the next generation.
Our blenders become their burdens but one thing is certain: If we merge mercy with might, and might with right, then love becomes our legacy in change, our children’s birthright.
So let us leave behind a country better than the one we were left. With every breath from my bronze-pounded chest, we will raise this wounded world into a wondrous one. We will rise from the gold-limbed hills of the west, we will rise from the winds swept north, east where our forefathers first realized revolution. We will rise from the lake-rinsed cities of the midwestern states. We will rise from the sun-baked South. We will rebuild, reconcile, and recover in every known nook of our nation and every corner called our country, our people diverse and beautiful will emerge battered and beautiful.
When day comes, we step out of the shade, aflame and unafraid. The new dawn blooms as we free it. For there is always light if only we’re brave enough to see it, if only we’re brave enough to be it.”
A Poem
uses words
Great Poems inspire actions
which transpires them. . .
T H A T
we may all be more
ADJECTIVES
than NOUNS
are never anything less
than Words
actually becoming Flesh
giving words and actions
a deeper
longer-lasting
M E A N I N G
leading down
a-not-so-overly-familiar-road
to a day
that can’t be found or contained
on a calendar. . .
Great is the Day:
May the words
New
Beginning
Unity
be the Colorful Threads
that find themselves
in Each of our Tapestries
that fly high
in a gentle breeze of
CHANGE
(always for the better)
A Poem of
U S
never has to rhyme
to give us
R E A S O N
FRAGILE DIS-EASE
It’s not the first time
(and never the last time)
that a poem found me
like a smoke of a blown out candle
that’s still very much
T H E R E
even without the flicker. . .
Fragile
by Nic Askew
We are fragile. You and me.
Though we act strong,
our lives are
held together with
thoughts of where
we might be tomorrow.
And of disappointed
yesterdays.
At any moment we might shatter.
We might fall to our knees
weighed down by the terror
of being so far from
our own control.
Dare we look up, we’d not know
where to go or what to do.
We are fragile. You and me.
If we were to turn to each other,
we might see the whole world
on their knees.
Hurting, and seemingly
alone.
But none of us are.
We are fragile together.
P O E T R Y
can never be framed in
if it’s genuinely vulnerable
and
RAW
FRAGILE
DIS-EASED
(which birthed this):
We are so careful
now
not to be contagious
not to give
what’s so very much
not wanted
needed
sought
I want to give you
so much more
fragile
frail
and maybe even as
deadly
You
I want to give you my
DIS-EASE
my rawest dis-ease
my naked un-comfiness
a nothingness
more intimate
more life-ending
I want to give IT
A most feeble Communion
to give
to receive
accepted